Playing soldiers
by redheadleela
Summary: A little fluffy fic that came to me when listening to an old song. Meant to be set somewhere in Season 2, but no specific spoilers. Rating is just for caution as the end gets a touch violent


Author Note: Wow, this fic appeared almost whole in my head because I listened to the old song 'Two little boys' (sung by Rolf Harris among others). Hope it doesn't seem too disjointed, and I guess its a little fluffy so sorry for that too, but I hope you enjoy it. Reviews make me smile.

Oh and I don't own anything to do with Sherlock or we'd have Season 3 already (dunno who I think I'm kidding, I'm the world's biggest procrastinator)

John was sat quietly reading his new book when the cry he had expected for at least an hour was heard from directly behind his head, "John, I'm bored!"

John was slightly ashamed to admit that the lanky detective had startled him, focussed as he was on his book he had lost track of Sherlock's position in the flat. Despite this he managed to keep his voice level and uninterested as he turned a page and replied, "And that's my problem because..?"

Sherlock huffed his breath out in frustration and threw himself into an armchair, he maintained a moody silence for what seemed to John to be no longer than 30 seconds before breaking it with, "John, where's your gun?"

"No." John kept his eyes on his book as he said this.

"That's not an appropriate answer to my question!"

John finally looked up at his flatmate as he murmured, "Trust me, it is!"

Sherlock sat perched cat-like upon the seat of the armchair with a half frustrated and half gleeful look on his face.

John sighed and put his book down, "Why, Sherlock?"

The quizzical expression that quickly replaced the previous one prompted John to clarify his question. "When you're bored you look around for an object to help amuse you, normal people would look to a book, the TV or a computer." John stopped to glare lightly at his friend because as he had named each item Sherlock had responded in an undertone with, "Boring, boring, boring."

"So..." Fixing the younger man with a look to ensure his attention, "Why does your mind, brilliant though it doubtlessly is, jump to my gun?"

Sherlock was silent again, but seemingly he was considering the question as when he answered he still looked deep in thought, "I suppose..." John glanced at him as he paused, thinking he might know what was coming, what would make Sherlock hesitate to answer. "It is probably a behaviour dictated by the fondness with which I still hold certain childhood memories."

John kept his silence, and held in his curiosity. He knew that Sherlock didn't often speak of his past, and knew that if he pushed to know more his friend would simply close up.

After another epic pause Sherlock spoke again, quietly now, as if he was unaware of John's continued presence, "I always loved to play games of imagination, often I played alone, but some games Mycroft would deign to join in, when he was still at home anyway... He seemed to only really enjoy the games that were based around the military, so when I was a pirate he was a commander in the navy, cowboys and indians..." Sherlock looked up and caught John's eye with a look of almost fear in his eyes.

John however, smiled, "Yeah I used to play those sort of games too, although I bet mine didn't have the same imagination yours did!"

Sherlock returned the friendly smile, obviously still a little lost in these memories.

"But you can't have had a real gun to play with back then, right?" John's voice lowered with uncertainty as he finished his remark, as regardless of what he didn't know about it he was sure that Sherlock's upbringing had been unusual.

"Hmm? What...? Oh no, of course not, mummy would never have allowed that. We each had some toy weapons which we used instead."

John nodded as he laughed internally at Sherlock's logic behind his answer, "Okay, but my point is if you want to 'play' why do you use a real gun now?"

Sherlock frowned slightly as he looked up, "Because I no longer own a toy weapon of course."

John actually laughed this time, "But Sherlock, I never had a toy gun when I was a kid, it didn't stop me from playing at being a soldier."

"Or becoming one." He responded wryly.

A sudden irrepressible urge took hold of John, and he jumped to his feet, "Grab your coat, Sherlock. We're going to the park."

Half an hour later found the two fully grown men chasing each other around Regents Park along from Baker Street, with twigs in their hands as guns. They had briefly agreed that they would keep track of how many times they were 'shot' and compare once they were finished (in other words when they were exhausted or it got dark). Just after Sherlock had loudly proclaimed that he could not be beaten as he would always observe an attack before it happened, he found himself looking around, confused by John's apparent disappearance.

Meanwhile John was lying flat on his front in some useful thick shrubbery watching Sherlock turning on the spot, evidentially trying to locate him. He raised himself just slightly and then shouted, "I have you in my sights, run Sherlock, run!"

As he was able to, at the very least, vaguely discern the direction John's voice had issued from, Sherlock let out a noise of excitement and ran in the opposite direction towards a stand of trees which would provide him with hiding places.

John had allowed his friend a short head-start (as he momentarily laughed at how much fun he was having) before setting off at a crouched run. He headed not directly for the trees as Sherlock was doing, but veered round to right so as to enter the copse from the side, at roughly 90 degrees to Sherlock, or as a little voice inside John was calling him 'the prey'!

Sherlock slowed just a little as he hit the trees, trying to listen for John's approach as he ran through the fallen leaves. He risked a glance back over his shoulder and it was in this awkward twisted position that his foot hooked underneath a tree root. He overbalanced and fell down the short slope with a tremendous crash. Lying in a heap at the bottom, wrapped in mud and leaves, Sherlock was stunned. He was not clumsy! He was in full control of his limbs, he had had to be in his many chases across the city. He lay there trying to catch his breath and figure out what had just happened.

John heard the crash and froze... He ran to the top of the slope he had seen Sherlock's form go over. Seeing his friend at the bottom, not moving, his heart leapt to his throat. Although he wanted to run to his friend a sliver of doubt lingered... Were they perhaps still playing? John considered the possibility for about 3 seconds, when Sherlock continued lack of movement drove him down the slope in full doctor mode.

"Ow. Ow. Ow."

John emerged from the bathroom while still drying his hands due to the strange sounds he'd heard. "Sherlock? Hey! I told you to rest that ankle!"

The said detective has been hobbling towards his coat, trying to put as little weight on his sprained ankle as possible, he redoubled his efforts as he said, "Lestrade text me, we've got a case. Come on."

John thought of at least 5 objections he could raise, then realised it was pointless and grabbed his own jacket.

A short taxi ride later found them at New Scotland Yard and in less time still they were entering Lestrade's office. John walked in, Sherlock (much to his displeasure) limped in.

Lestrade looked up as they entered, took in this detail with a frown and went to ask about it when he realised the pair were both looking at him with Cheshire Cat grins, daring him to ask.

"Never mind... So the case,"

As Sherlock hobbled his way around the crime scene, bemoaning the fact he hadn't seen it before 'Anderson messed it up', Lestrade came to stand next to John and they both watched the detective work.

"John?"

"Yes Greg." John knew what was coming by the hesitance in his friend's voice.

"Erm, how exactly did... I mean, what's he done to his leg?"

"Its just a sprained ankle, it'll heal soon enough. It'd heal even sooner if he took my advice and rested it."

"Okay." An awkward pause stretched in the sounds of Sherlock rummaging amongst the building detritus. "But how...?"

John turned to look at the DI and smiled, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Ah come on, this is Sherlock, I'd believe just about anything."

John just smiled again, then started over to their subject as he stood with an air of having finished.

Three days later found Lestrade, Sherlock(whose ankle had almost healed) and John stood in front of a run down house with boarded-up windows, clearing up the finer points of the case. Donovan, meanwhile, was instructing the recently arrested man to duck his head as she put him in the police car. John was facing the car and his fellows were facing the house, so he was the first to react when the criminal jerked suddenly managing to knock Sergeant Donovan off-balance. She recovered quickly and all four of them, John leading the pack took off after the escaping man.

That's when the shots started, which caused them all to scatter for cover. John kept after the man, who the bullets had not come near and with John so close behind him the shooter seemed reluctant to aim for him. The chase continued around corners, across busy roads (around the cars usually and over them if necessary, but never under them) until it reached a cul-de-sac as grim as the street they'd left behind. John saw the man ahead of him hesitate as he saw no way forward and so risked a look behind him to check for signs of Lestrade or Sherlock.

Instead what he found was a very large man who reminded him a lot of the assassin known as 'the Golem', this man, however was not quite as tall but made up for it in breadth.

"Ah." John took a small step back to allow room for the punches and kicks that would be necessary to defend himself against such a man. He heard a bark-like laugh from behind him and flicked a glance over his shoulder to see the criminal leering at him. He turned back to face the giant just in time to see the glint of steel, by the time he moved to block the blow it was too late. The sharp burning pain followed by the rush of ice, was a feeling John had experienced before, and had hoped not to have need to again. He tried to breathe in, felt his knees buckle beneath him and looked down to see the small knife protruding from his chest.

"John?" A shout from further down the street. He seemed to be alone now, he wondered where the criminal and his gigantic friend had gotten to, he felt he should know, that Sherlock would be angry with him. He wondered vaguely why he felt cold all over except for his hands, and on looking down again he saw he was automatically putting pressure around his wound, his hands wet with his own blood.

"John?!" Two voices, much closer now, and running steps. He felt his face lifted to look up and felt his vision swim and go grey.

The next thing John was aware of was Sherlock's coat around his shoulders and his friend's hand in his own. Lestrade had taken over the application of pressure around the knife, but they had realised that his external bleeding was not the main problem. As if to emphasise this John started coughing, and couldn't seem to stop. Sherlock rubbed at his back and gripped his hand even tighter, Lestrade was telling him to hold on and that the ambulance was on its way. Then all was black.

Sherlock paced the room impatiently and barely noticed his brother's appearance until he spoke aloud, "You know you could go home and I don't know, god forbid, sleep."

Sherlock simply scowled at his brother and returned to his pacing. John had returned from surgery three hours ago, the doctor had informed him that John should wake once the anaesthetic had worn off. Sherlock stopped his pacing and flopped down into the hard plastic chair by John's bedside. Finally, sighing dramatically, he looked up at Mycroft and asked, "Why are you here?"

The elder man was still standing in the doorway twirling his umbrella on the polished floor, without shifting position or expression he replied, "I simply wanted to ensure you and John were safe, I had heard there had been trouble with your case."

Sherlock scoffed under his breath, "You never 'simply' want anything... apart from cake."

Mycroft pulled his typical grimace face had his little brother's pointed remark, "Must you always behave like such a child?"

"He's just trying to make you feel younger, Mycroft."

Sherlock whirled round on his heel, "John!"

John smiled up at his friend from behind the oxygen mask he wore, and nodded in the direction of the elder Holmes.

Mycroft returned the nod to John, and stated, "Good to see you awake, get well quickly John." With that he swept from the room.

Sherlock returned to the hard plastic chair, and asked, "How do you feel?" at the exact moment that John wheezily asked, "Did he get away?"

Sherlock was keen to keep John's speech to a minimum, so quickly went on, "The criminal? No, Donovan had reinforcements and they caught up to him and his little friend in the back gardens of some of the nearby houses."

John raised his eyebrows, but had to speak to make himself understood, "_Little_ friend?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly, before grasping John's hand again. He seemed to be studying the lines and marks on John's skin, but as he had seen this behaviour before John was quiet and waited for Sherlock to speak. "I thought you were going to die." A long pause, "That scared me." An even longer pause, "Don't do it again!"

John blinked away his startled expression and replied, "I'll do my best!" and grinned as his friend leapt from the chair and said something about Lestrade and raced out the door.


End file.
